Escape Velocity
by Regans Alpha
Summary: .'Boring times on Betelguese 5'... or maybe not. Stuck on their increadably un-hip homeworld, a younger Ford and Zaphod (pre-hitchhiker and galactic president) attempt to rectify said situation and journey off into the galaxy. Ch 4 Up!
1. Opening Entry: Betelguese

Title: Escape Velocity

Author: The Dragoness

Notes: My sister and I have always been vaguely amused by that "This is my semi cousin Ford who shares three of the same mothers as me" comment… which is sort of what sparked this really. ^^ As a bit of a warning, I've kind of meshed random things from both the books and the drama together here… such as that that statement and Ford's nickname. That and I always imagine Zaphod with blonde hair. So sue me. XP Please review if you'd like me to continue!

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Prologue

The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy has this to say about the planet Betelguese 5. Despite the young prodigies and famous names who can claim Belelguese as their home planet (the most well-known of which is former Galactic president and all-around hip guy Zaphod Beeblebrox), in terms of the culture and general atmosphere of the planet, Betelguese 5 is not high on the to-visit list of most Hitchhikers. In fact, if you're looking for a goal to set for yourself, you may want to crash-land on it, spend a week there, and then see how long it takes you to decide that you must either 1) get sufficiently out of its gravitational field, or 2) gnaw your own arm off.

The whole problem has to do with the genetic makeup of the population. Humanoid in appearance as most ape-descended life forms will tell you, each Betelguesean has one father and several mothers. As a side comment, this brings about a low nativity rate, long lifespan, few inherited problems, and an absurdly abundant use of the nickname "mama's boy" in schools. But the main concern is that virtually every female on the planet is involved in at least one family relationship in order to keep the population levels stable and also to prevent a massive accumulation of inbreeding due to a limited choice of family lines.

Here it is in brief: As a result, the planet's entire female race is a population of overbearing mothers driving excessively large "family sized" ships. And as a result of the result, each consequential generation of the planet turns into a population of rebellious teenagers. And as a result of the result of the result, Betelguese 5 can often be viewed as one big dysfunctional home life.

Consequently, it is the goal of every individual over the age of six to leave the planet as soon as utterly possible. In fact, some nearby races view the above mentioned exodus as a "coming of age," a cherished time when children forcefully, or out of sheer desperation, violently (this often involves large sticks, homemade jet-propulsion rockets, and/or spiny-tailed wombats) defy their entourage of smothering mothers and strike out into the world on their own.

The Betelguesans are a remarkably independent race.

Unfortunately, what with leaving behind their families and possessions, they are also a remarkably poor one. The sole exception is those mothers remaining on the planet who keep possession of all their forgotten assets. In turn, this has caused over the past several hundred years the purchase of a mind-boggling amount of open-toed sandals, handbags, and moo-moos with a slight change to the mass and gravitational pull of the planet. But fortunately for them however, the Betelguesean youths are still able to reach their escape velocities and go hurtling off into a neighboring solar system, blasting grunge music with their towels ready at hand.


	2. Ships

Title: Escape Velocity

Author: The Dragoness

Notes: My sister and I have always been vaguely amused by that "This is my semi cousin Ford who shares three of the same mothers as me" comment… which is sort of what sparked this really. ^^ As a bit of a warning, I've kind of meshed random things from both the books and the drama together here… such as that that statement and Ford's nickname. That and I always imagine Zaphod with blonde hair. So sue me. XP Please review if you'd like me to continue!  
  
And an extra note for Dingotheque, who asked me for a mental image of Arthur. Ironically, Arthur's the only one I can actually think of! In my opinion, Simon Jones practically is Arthur (he potrayed him in the BBC radio drama _and_ TV mini-series), so poke around for any HHGG screen shots. Or, if you get _really_ desperate, you can look at my wacky Hitchhiker fanart at http://www.side7.com/art/regacera/gallery.html (I'll draw ANYTHING when I'm bored. Honestly. ^^:) 

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Chapter One

            Ford Prefect firmly decided that we was going to die before he hit his mid-life crisis.  Well, at least before he reached his 250th birthday, started going gray, and acquired the insane desire to dye his hair jet black and buy large vintage space ships with eye-watering coloring, but that was basically the same thing.  Partly it was because it was the nagging desire to always stay young, have fun, and live life to the fullest even if it was on the most boring planet for a teenager to put up with in the entire system.  But mostly it was because of Zaphod.

            Zaphod who happened to be breaking into a highly secured military cruiser at the moment.

            Not that Ford was opposed to such activities, quite the contrary; he'd often been the one to drag his friends in for a round of slightly illegal fun.  It's just that he didn't really like the nasty look the guard whose back he was currently standing on had flashed him when he'd been conscious a few minutes earlier.  He didn't really like the look of the guard's excessively large blaster either.  But he did like his flashy black helmet though.  He quickly bend down, scooped it up, and, deciding to have a little fun before he died, planted the thing firmly on his head.

            "Hey, Zaphod, how do I look?" Still standing on the guard's back, he spun around to give his semi-cousin a full view.

            Next to the ship's door, Zaphod's left head, sweating slightly and swearing a bit, was concentrating fiercely on the mess of the circuit panel's wires that he'd managed to create.  His other head slowly glanced over its shoulder and raised its eyebrows slightly.  "Like a reject from Madame Pronna's Parlor of Pompador Dancers, Ix.  Take it off before it gives me brain damage."

            "Are you sure that's a bad thing in your situation?  And shut up."

            "What? Something wrong… _Ix_?" Zaphod retorted, placing a slight emphasis on the last word.

            "You know, if you weren't currently in charge of our survival and the probability that we'll be alive for dinner tonight, I'd box your heads together."

            Zaphod's right head grinned and gave a short bark of laugher before returning to what the rest of him was working on.  Meanwhile, Ford continued to wear his hat.

            Despite any blood-ties or "bonds of friendship" if such a thing actually existed (which most people already doubted, and which was actually mathematically disproven years later by a group of scientists who had recently had their galactic credit cards run up by their respective partners), there was little doubt in Ford's mind that Zaphod had been the so-called clever one who had invented the nickname "Ix" for him at school.  "Boy who does not know the reason why..." blah blah blah whatever and so on.  So he couldn't pronounce his own name, big deal.  He honestly wasn't one to care.  It also saved lot of ink and paper if he didn't have to write the whole thing out.  Actually, the nickname sometimes worked to his advantage, seeing as it often gave him a good reason to knock Zaphod's two heads against one another, something that was _always _fun to watch.

            The friendship argument refuted, Zaphod and Ford certainly didn't look as though they were related in any case.  Fine blonde hair and a rather good-looking facial structure noticeably clashed with the other's ginger hair and freckles.  Then of course there was that two-headed thing Zaphod inherited from his father's side of the family. One semi-cousin thanked Zarquon that he only had to mess around with one consciousness, while the other pitied his relative and sent him condolence cards every New Years.  Yet despite all differences as well as a certain incident involving the girl in the next cubicle over at school earlier that year, the two remained fairly close friends.  The way they saw it, people needed other people if they were to survive and escape from their frighteningly boring and smoldering planet.  They also needed a ship.

            Which was why they were currently trying to break into the one in front of them.

            "Stupid circuit won't work!" Zaphod finally shouted in frustration as he stopped working long enough to give the door a swift kick, merely gaining a bruised toe as a reward.

            Ford glanced at the mess of wires and poked at it, idly wishing that he had something to carry a screwdriver in so that he could either jam the panel or try to beat some sense into at least one of Zaphod's heads.  "Keep your voice down, will you?  Nice job you've done of this, by the way."  Folding his arms, he looked up at an iron grate on the side of the ship about ten feet above their heads.  "Think we can get into the air vents?"

            Meanwhile, Zaphod was busy kicking the guard since he was much less likely to break his toe on him than the hard door.  "Sure, why not? Crawling around through ventilation sounds like a blast anyway.  But as far as being a good idea, I can't really say.  I'm supposed to be the smart one, remember?"

            True enough, Ford admitted as he crawled up onto Zaphod's shoulders and pulled the grating open with a loud squeak.  His semi-cousin may have been the smart one, but this was what he was more suited for: unplanned action (or as Zaphod liked to put it, unplanned stupidity… which Ford also admitted was true half the time).  Unplanned perhaps, but all they had to do was get inside the ship, get everyone outside, steal it, and get as far away from Betelguese 5 as possible.  How hard could it be?

            Crawling through the cold rectangular tunnel before them, they suddenly paused as a steady chorus of clicks and beeps drifted up to them.  Zaphod tapped the metal floor.  "That's probably one of the processing rooms," he whispered.

            "Right... I don't hear anyone moving around either."

            "So we just go in there, deactivate the local security system, and take it from there."  He slid aside the maintenance panel below them.  You go first."

            "What?" Ford hissed back, twisting around to look at Zaphod.  "It's your idea; you go first."

            "But it was your idea to get into the vents in the first place.  You go."

            "No. You."

            "You. I'll give you my Sub-Ether radio."

            "The pink one or the black one?"

            "The pink one."

            "Forget it."

            Zaphod grunted.  He'd never liked that pink radio.  "Fine, look, we'll just go together, okay?  Happy now?  On three.  One, two," He paused, considered simply shoving Ford out of the panel, wondered if that "friendship bonds" thing held any stock, and with a shrug decided against it.  "Three."  After a slight pause they jumped and landed with a dull thud on the floor below.

            And they were quite startled to find themselves blocking the view of a spy movie that a good portion of the crew was watching.  The fact that most of the aliens were busy stuffing their faces with glucose-filled snacks almost but didn't quite disguise the fact that they were all carrying those disturbingly large guns and wearing Madame Pronna-esque hats.  Ford managed to startle Zaphod even further by blinking in surprise.

            At the slight movement, instantly every weapon in the room was pointed directly at the two teenagers, and Zaphod Beeblebrox was forced to do what he considered the very best action for the situation.  He flashed them his two winning smiles.  "Um... hi."


	3. Escapes

Title: Escape Velocity

Chapter Two: Escapes

So very, very sorry about the absurdly long update-time!  On one hand, I've been a bit busy this summer… on the other hand, I needed to re-hash out a plot… and on another hand, I didn't think too many people'd be mortally wounded if I didn't update. ~_^  But that's evidently not the case (*winks at Miruvor*), so here you go!

Extra note for Aofyn: Astute, aren't you? ^^  I was actually thinking about that when I started writing this… but then I ran up against the problem of not actually knowing Ford's real name, and I got the impression that Ix was more of a school nickname, rather than one he actually responded to.  That and referring to him as Ix for the entire fic would be somewhat confusing and annoying.  Meh.  Might change it later on actually.

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            That night's dinner in the Beeblebrox home could have been a bit more appetizing.

            "You could have been arrested!" A set of plates were slammed onto the table.

            "Mo~oom…"

            "Hurt!"  Silverware.

            "Mooo~oooom…"

            "Maimed!"  Glasses.

            "Mooo~oooom!"

            "Or even taken to the Frogstar!"  Entrée.

            "Oh, come on, mom-"

            "Ford, don't you get started too.  You're in just as much trouble as he is!"  Mrs. Alice Beeblebrox of 10 to the 8th Astrel Cresent, who had changed her last name after a romantic love affair to Eroticon 6 with her blonde, romantic, and double-headed first husband, glared across the wide kitchen table.  Normally all seven of her children's mothers seldom ate together under one roof, but after Zaphod and Ford had been marched home escorted by no less than a dozen military troops, she decided to make an exception to the norm.

            Said children were currently seated at the center of the table, Ford slumped down in his seat glaring angrily at his sneakers, and Zaphod leaning casually back against the arm rest, his face a mask of innocence and confidence as if daring any of the women present to re-accuse little ol' him of any wrong-doings.  Nevertheless, both of them looked somewhat out of place in the very cozy, very lacy, and very clean kitchen.  Neither had ever been a big fan of novelty salt-and-pepper shakers either, compliments of Mrs. Jeannette Beeblebrox's sudden and fanatic obsession with collecting shakers in the shape of barnyard animals.

            Ford continued to stare menacingly at his shoes, for the most part ignoring his semi-cousin's charmed wheeling and dealing of their mothers.  He'd get them out of trouble before desert, no problem there.  The problem _did_ lie however in the extremely obvious and extremely annoying fact that they were still on Betelguese 5.  Without a ship.  At home.  Surrounded by cow salt shakers.  He thought for a brief moment before coming up with his newest daily resolution.  _I will never own anything made of ceramics._  He felt a bit better after that at least.

            If only towels could be made into ships.  They were really so very very useful except for that one tiny downfall of not having jet propulsion. (Although he had heard from his uncle that one voyager had in fact attempted to stitch a rocket onto his… but the entire thing had failed miserably and he'd merely ended up crashing face-first into a local souvenir factory of bobblehead dolls and koozies.  Residents of the planet had been forced to carry umbrellas with them for half a week as plastic trinkets rained from the skies, and the bobblehead factory itself had soon after gone out of business when they were unable to keep up with the influx of orders after their burst of popularity.)  It was extremely frustrating, he mentally told his shoes, hoping that they'd stop collecting scruff marks and listen for a moment.  Here he was, potentially the greatest traveler of all time, wasting away his innocent youth in his mothers' kitchen.  He even had the towel for the job; he'd been using towels for years ever since Uncle Finn had given him his first one for his seventh birthday.  An illegally ugly baby blue and lime green number, but a towel nonetheless.  Zaphod had confiscated and burned it anyhow, so over the years Ford had upgraded to a thicker fabric, to a larger size, to a florescent cashmere shag (_that_ was interesting), and finally to a simple reinforced off-white that he carried with him nearly everywhere.

            He grinned, picturing himself cavorting throughout space, towel in hand, and added another set of resolutions to the old one.  _I will get off this planet.  I will become a marginally successful space traveler.  I will buy myself a satchel for my towel and explore the galaxy, picking up women and figuring out what the big deal about this "alcohol" stuff is._  Sounded like a good start for the week.

            When he finally looked up the conversation was long since over, and he found himself completely alone at the table, surrounded by a half-finished baklava and an army of barnyard shakers littered between the dishes.

            "Thank you very much."  Zaphod strolled into the bright room, taking an elaborate bow before seating himself casually on the lacy tablecloth.  "Thanks to the awesome and amazing powers of yours truly, we are free and clear, provided that we learned our lesson."  He shoved a piece of pie into his mouth.  "So.  Care to try again?  Tomorrow perhaps?"

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

            Zaphod was true to his word.  The next sickeningly perfectly bright morning found them outside and, once again, stalking through the city for anything with wings and a key in the ignition.  But, once again, they were still on the planet by lunchtime.  Boredom and hunger had begun to set in as Ford stood in the middle of the street next to Zaphod, absently rambling about exploring distant planets.  Granted, the latter seemed to be more interested in picking small pieces of lint off his shirt than listening to his semi-cousin, but Ford continued on anyway in an annoying loop, changing the topic every minute or so.

"Hey, Zaphod?  I was thinking yesterday at dinner… you know, when mom and mom and mother were going off about how children are 'not supposed to steal military ships' and all that?"

            "Uh huh… hey, look, ice cream!"

            "Mom has _far_ too many salt-and-pepper shakers.  It's getting disturbing."

            "That cow one just freaks me out, man.  You want chocolate or vanilla?"

            "Strawberry.  I mean, sure, if ceramic animals are your thing that's all right, but after a bit, what's the point anymore?  Yes, you've shown the world that you have collected anough porcelain to actually make a real-life, if not slightly stiff and useless cow, but then what?"  He paused, registering that Zaphod currently had both his heads and shoulders inside the ice cream ship's window.  "Maybe it's one of those holy missions.  Maybe a God, or someone who looked an awful lot like a God, since it's easy to get confused, you know, said to her, 'Before you die, it is your sacred quest to collect more barnyard shakers than anyone's ever collected before.  And put them on your table and scare your children before some day selling the whole table to an art museum so that you can make money to buy even more shakers.  If you can make them actually moo, then bonus points to you.'   That defiantly has to be it.  If she's been doing this of her own free will, I'd think-"

            "Get in!"

            Years from now, Ford would always excuse any references to his childhood by describing his younger self as either stupid or intoxicated.  In this case, for completely missing out on the current situation, he would settle on 'just plain dumb.'  After all, it was a blatantly logical and simple series of events… for someone who knew what he was doing at least.  Zaphod sees ice cream ship.  Zaphod asks ice cream ship driver for ice cream.  Zaphod tells ice cream ship driver that he has a big nasty bird stuck in his engine.  Zaphod steals ice cream ship and makes off with two cones to boot.

            In any case, without warning Zaphod grabbed Ford's arm with both of his own and yanked him into the ship, slamming the metal door behind them.  With an almost admirable speed, he promptly began to flip any and all dials or leavers marked "Pull me to power up please!"  If the driver inspecting his now-humming engine hadn't realized that his ship was being stolen, he surely would now.  Without pausing, he turned one head towards Ford, who was currently eyeballing his surroundings somewhat warily.  "What?  Is it the stealing?  Can't believe we're actually leaving this hunk of rock?"

            "…We're in an ice cream ship."

            "And your point is?"

            "I just thought you had better taste," he replied, raising an eyebrow at the cramped, but brightly clashing interior of vinyl seating and brand advertisements.  The colors pink and yellow appeared to be having a war with each other over who could take up the most area and be the most hideous at the same time.

            "Impromptu situation.  Desperate times.  And we get all the ice cream in the back for the trip."

            That last part sounded good.  Ford leaned across the dash, helping Zaphod flip the rest of the switches, stealing a glance out at the ship's previous owner, who was currently pounding on the passenger side door.  "Well, you convinced me.  There.  All set."

            "Okay, now… drive!"  The blonde waved his fingers in emphasis.

            "Why can't you?"

            Zaphod rolled both sets of his eyes and held the backs of his hands out in response.  "Look at these hands.  These are a politician's and a genius's hands.  Not a white-collared nutcase's."

            He thought about this point for a moment, then shrugged and shoved Zaphod out of the driver's seat.  With a screeching of wheels and a blast from the engine, he floored their new vehicle, leaving behind in the blink of an eye a very peeved ice cream salesman, seven mothers, a hoard of salt shakers, and the most boring planet in the system.  He'd also discover later that he'd left behind his entire collection of radios and _Playbeing_ issues, but Zaphod would simply chock it up to fate having good taste.

            But the loss of his personal possessions hadn't even crossed his mind they skidded up through the atmosphere, quickly gaining on and passing their sworn mortal enemy, Betelguese 5's escape velocity.  And then just as quickly as they'd boarded, they were free, surrounded by the vastness of space and a million pinpoints of light in their very own ship.  They could go to any of a hundred thousand planets from here.  They could start anything, become anyone.  And not have to give a hoot about cow shakers or overbearing mothers either.  Zaphod appeared to be embarking on a long-winded verbal thrashing of his home planet, and Ford, throwing his towel onto the dashboard with a loud whoop, went to turn on some music for the monumental occasion with a flick of the sound dial.

            Happy to oblige, the sound system loudly began to blare a tinkling-bell rendition of _Mintri Had a Little Robot_.

            "So, kiddo, where to?"  Zaphod leaned back in his pastel pink seat and propped his feet up next to Ford's towel, probably already a world leader in his mind.

            "Um…"  Barely containing another grin, Ford squinted a the road map he snagged off of the floor, a bit of coffee blurring the upper corners the Vega System.  Locating the next planet the ship was programmed to jump to, he read the name out loud to his semi-cousin.

"Ursa Minor."


	4. Connections

Title: Escape Velocity

Author: The Dragoness

Notes: A bit longer this time I think… yaaay (See!  I told you reviews make me remember to write ^^).  So who remembers that bit in the first book about Zaphod, a megafreighter, and some conkers?  And certain fun people who'll crop up soon enough.  I seem to be yanking quite a few minor details into this story… which amuses me.  Hopefully you guys'll know who I'm talking about though. ~_^

Extra reviewer notes: Shadow~ Gah, that _would_ be interesting!  Especially since, the way I see it, Betelguesan lifelines are a lot longer than Human ones (15 years stuck on a planet if you only live for 75 is an awful long time, don't you think?)  Poor Arthur would be so phenomenally confused.  And thanks to Neila and Overload for the new encouragement!

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Chapter Three: Connections

_(Excerpt from The Hitch Hiker's Guide to the Galaxy, Entry: Ursa Minor Beta)_

"Ursa Minor Beta is, some say, one of the most appalling places in the known Universe.  Although it is excruciatingly rich, horrifyingly sunny and more full of wonderfully exciting people than a pomegranate is of pips, it can hardly be insignificant that when a recent edition of Playbeing magazine headlined an article with the words 'When you are tired of Ursa Minor Beta you are tired of life', the suicide rate quadrupled overnight.  Not that there are any nights on Ursa Minor Beta."

Zaphod and Ford's newly acquired ice cream ship descended through the clouds, continuing to happily blare chimed versions of popular pop tunes, and looking not a little bit like an Earthchild's deranged sugar-coated fantasy come true.  And merely a few minutes later after nearly crashing into two ships, a toll meter, and pool of exotic sea creatures (Ford had always been rather bad at parallel parking), the two Betelguesians were anxiously kicking at the electronic door to make it open faster.  Through all three of their heads span imaginative scenes of hip commercialism, suave leaders, hideously busy cities, and even more amazing towering buildings.  It was rather unfortunate that the scene that greeted them was stuffed full of blinding sunshine, happy tourists at sparkling oceansides, and an unholy collection of relaxed surfers.

After a moment of staring, and a moment more of disappointment, they both managed to sum up their reactions with one clever and descriptive word: "boring."

Ford by this time had skipped the second moment of disappointment and had turned on his heal, intent on heading to a different planet all together, when Zaphod grabbed him by the collar and yanked him back into the still shining sunlight.  Ford squinted irritably at him.  "Don't tell me that you actually want _this_ place to be the first one we set out on, do you?"

"Hey, come on, Ursa Minor's a pretty popular planet…"  He shrugged his shoulders and waved his arms around a bit for emphasis.  "I'm sure we could find something useful here.  All this place really needs is some class."

            "And some natural disasters."

            "Sure, and some natural disasters."

"There should be a law against having so many beaches.  It's probably bad for the environment."

            "Most things tend to be anyway," Zaphod replied lazily, fishing around for and idly glancing through an Ursa Minor tourist pamphlet he'd picked up from inside the ship where they'd found the map.

            "So are you going to apply for an internship?  Stick your foot in and get it crunched up in the proverbial door?" Ford asked, remembering his semi-cousins natural liking for fame, fortune, and mostly political dictatorships.

            "No way, that's for nobodies.  The leaders you really hear about never start out that way.  They typically skip ahead to save time, like bribing people with expensive continents or staging a coup with some well-placed rockets."

            Ford had a sudden surreal vision of Zaphod stampeding through the galactic capital, firing rounds of dangerous sugar cones at his rivals.  He promptly blamed it on his lack of sugar intake and reached for yet another serving of ice cream.  "Well, last time I checked pink and yellow furniture wasn't in season, and ice cream doesn't explode.  So I suggest you figure out something else before we're down to our last container of pistachio.  I hate pistachio."

            "They key," Zaphod continued, deciding to ignore anything that might or might not have come out of Ford's mouth, "is to find a connection and latch onto someone you know, someone high up on the chain."

            "Like who?"

            "Like Yooden Vranx."

            Ford paused for a moment and took a thoughtful lick of chocolate.  "Yooden Vranx?  You mean that guy whose Arcuran megafreighter you broke into a while back?  The guy with all the conkers and the food and the booze?"

            "And who stuck us in the Beleguese maximum security prison for a day.  Yep.  Amazing guy."  One of his heads smiled fondly, while the other leafed through his booklet, taking notes occasionally.

            "I'm still mad at losing all that betting money, you know.  And at you for losing a decent tri-jet off the planet just because you decided that you had nothing better to do on a Saturday than to raid a megafreighter."  Another lick.  "Wild good time though, I'll give you that.  Although why couldn't you have saved some of those skills for when we were trying to break into that _other_ ship?"

            "Because I listened to you, that's why.  But yeah, great times.  Great guy.  He's president of the Galaxy now, you know?"

            "No kidding?  And I take it that you're going to see if he'll just up and offer you, a kid fresh from Betelguese 5 with absolutely no political experience whatsoever, a job."

            "Yep."

            "Oh, good then.  Just so that we're on the same track."

            Some small piece of Ford's mind quietly began to annoy the rest of it by considering that this in theory was actually not such a bad idea.  After all, Zaphod _was_ one of the cleverest individuals he had ever met, despite the stupidity vibes he tended to give off just to annoy people.  And more importantly, Zaphod was one of the cleverest individuals Yooden Vranx had ever met.  Or so the now-president had claimed after the two of them had burst onto the main bridge of their megafreighter, brandishing toy guns with a list of highly tasty demands.

            "Well," Zaphod interrupted his thoughts as he closed the pamphlet with a small thunk and a large grin.  "I've thought of a job, and now am off to make them give it to me.  You can go do… whatever it is you do.  Meet you back at the ship for dinner, okay?"  And with the grace of Jack Russel Terrier at a dinner party, he skipped into the nearby crowd.

            Left to his own devices, Ford decided that he might as well follow Zaphod's path in search of something more interesting than pools; they could always go for a swim later.  But halfway down the ramp he suddenly remembered his Uncle Finnae's advice: never go anywhere without your towel; you never know what you might need it for.  He quickly darted into the ship, emerged a moment later towel in hand, and finally set off in what, according to Zaphod's pamphlet, he hoped to be the more commercially inclined portion of the local area.  He had wandered aimlessly through most of the afternoon (at least he assumed it was the afternoon; the sun was still trying its best to happily beam down on him) before he'd realized that he'd found it.  Granted, there were a few less pools and a few more shops and restaurants here, but the lack of busy streets and architectural wonders was still mildly depressing.

Ford sighed and allowed his eyes to drift past a colorful pair of tentacled tourists and over to an equally colorful short plaster building labeled "Surf's Up Bar and Grill."  Well, at least there was food and alcohol.  He quickly threw his newest resolution of the moment into the pile with the others.  _I will buy some – no, wait – I will make Zaphod buy some drinks once he finds some money._  Alcohol, he'd decided many years ago, was a good thing; at least the minute amount of it he'd had was.  Granted, Zaphod claimed that the stuff he swiped from _his_ favorite mother's liquor cabinet was better than the stuff that Ford swiped from _his_ favorite mother's cabinet, and that according to popular rumor since no one as of yet had been able to go so far as smell it yet alone taste it, the stuff found in their mutual mother Agnes's cabinet could beat that belonging to Mrs. Alice Beeblebrox and Mrs. Vivetta Prefect with one hand tied up behind its back and one foot tied up in a Vogon lawsuit.  So engrossed was he in thinking about "the good cabinet stuff" and in wondering what it would be like to actually get honest-to-goodness flat out drunk one day, he didn't even notice the stranger waving to get his attention until he had crossed the street and was practically right in front of him.

            "Excuse me, but can I borrow your towel for a minute?"  Ford glanced up with a start and knitted down his eyebrows at the biped alien speaking to him, a medium-set, robust, and tanned-looking individual perhaps a few years older than himself.  Although by the same token it was completely possible that he was a few years younger, decades older, or precisely the same age; you could never tell with other species.  While his right hand was raised in a greeting, his left seemed to be clamped onto a bulging suitcase, as well as a sub-ether radio, a map, as well as a plastic cup full of some liquid or another.  A traveler.  The gears inside his head began to rid themselves of dust and slowly turn.

            "Sure."  With a smile, the alien accepted the offered towel, popped open a panel on his radio, and proceeded to rub the two vigorously together.  Ford was about to mention that that method tended to work only with two sticks and perhaps a blow torch, but within moments the radio flared to life and began commenting on Bill Ror Rocket's latest smash hit "O Where Have All the Smashkavorts Gone?"

            "Thanks a lot, kiddo; piece of rubbish needs a good old static jolt now and then, and I lost my own towel back on Traal -those bugs there sure do put a damper on your hitchhiking- and there aren't too many people here who carry one of their own.  A real shame, that.  But I owe you one."

            The gears began to grind methodically, humming something about squeaks and alternative pop.  "Hitchhiking?"

            "Oh yeah, sorry about that; let me introduce myself.  The name's Roosta, professional hitchhiker and prelim worker on the upcoming Guide.  Basically I'm either planning with the team or traveling around the galaxy, collecting materials for a galactic guidebook."  With another easy smile, he stuck out a large hand and pulled one of Ford's own into a firm handshake.  "It might sounds a bit strange, but between you and me, I wouldn't trade it for any other job in the universe.  It's one hoopy time."

            During Roosta's introduction, a myriad of expressions offered a change of scenery across Ford's face.  Indifference, maniacal interest, curiosity, amusement, and finally utter confusion at the mention of the word "hoopy."

            Roosta seemed to pick up on this last change as he slung the now-working radio over his back.  "You know… hoopy.  Great.  Cool.  Awesome.  The best thing to happen since Eccentrica Gallumbits."  Ford continued to stare at him blankly, this time widening one eye while narrowing the other, creating an all-around bizarre expression as though his features, not quite knowing what to do with themselves, had decided that a six-ship pileup was the best solution.  He quietly filed it away for future use at parties.  Meanwhile, Roosta dutifully showed his concern over either the contortions or the lack of recognition of Eccentrica Gallumbits.  "Man… What planet are _you_ from?"

            "Eh, Betelguese 5."  He tacked on that bizarre expression just for kicks, and attempted to modify it even more by sticking his tongue partway out.  It failed miserably, and merely succeeded in frightening an elementary tour group who happened to be passing by.

            "Oh, no wonder!"  Roosta gave a quick, deep laugh.  "Heard a lot of stories about that one.  A few of our co-workers are from there actually; for the first few months they never shut up about the place unless they were drunk."  He paused for a moment in thought.  "Which I suppose means that they really didn't talk about it all that much.  Anyway, what did you escape in?"  Ford pointed casually over his shoulder at the ice cream ship.  The other alien craned his head slightly to the right, registered it for a moment, and then laughed again with an ease that seemed to imply that he spent a good deal of his life in this state of mind.  Which in all honesty wasn't a bad place to be.

"Well, congratulations, kid.  You've made it to Ursa Minor, probably the most appalling place in the universe.  Betelguese 5 not included."  He paused and suddenly produced a pen and a somewhat crumpled pad of paper from his suitcase.  "Hang on, lemme write that down; that's pretty good."  He tossed the items back in their place and continued.  "So now what?  What do you want to do with your life?"

            Zaphod and any other individual who contained the capacity to actually make decisions based on rational thought would have smacked him with a two by four over his response based off of a conversation he'd been having for less than ten minutes with an alien he'd never met and a job he'd never heard of.  But Zaphod was currently weaseling his way into the world of politics, and "unplanned action" was Ford's forte supposedly.  And besides, the words were out of his mouth before he'd even had time to think about them.  Not that he would have anyway.  "Hitchhike."

            Roosta stared at him for a few seconds confusedly, then burst into a wide grin and clapped him on the back, steering him into the smoky interior of a nearby bar.  Not to be outdone, Ford immediately matched his grin with one of his own.  "You're a strange kid… but a hoopy frood if I ever saw one…"

            "Ford," he supplied.

            "…saw one, Ford.  But the Guide needs all the hoopy froods we can get.  And if Hitchhiking's where you've set your sights, then what say I order us a few Ol' Janx Spirits and hammer out the details to you, eh?"  In response, Ford continued to grin manically at him the entire time, the little gears inside his head registering the "hoopy" job he'd just wormed his way into and not much else, as particularly evident by the way he nearly ran into the bar's countertop, earning him a peeved glare from the eight-armed alien standing behind it.  Roosta in turn took that as a 'yes' and clapped him on the back once more.  "Well then, let me just be the first to say: welcome to the staff of the Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy."


End file.
